The Crow's Lament
by Lady in black
Summary: It's Frodo's last March in the Shire and demons of the past are coming back to haunt him. It's March, 13th 1421 S.R. and Bag End is not the peaceful place it used to be. WARNINGS: High angst, some mild language. No sex, no profanity. Please read and review.
1. Part I

DISCLAIMER: All of the herein used places, characters and otherwise fictional elements are the sole property of J.R.R. Tolkien and/ or his heirs. I do not claim ownership nor is any copyright infringement intended. The plot of this work of fanfiction is mine, though.

AN: A sad day indeed is September 2nd. On this day 40 years ago in 1973 Professor Tolkien passed away. May he rest in peace.

My thanks to FairyTaleLover6 who has not only graciously agreed to beta read this story but always offers her unrelenting support. For that I am eternally in her debt.

* * *

_"He was in a land of darkness where the days of the world seemed forgotten, and where all who entered were forgotten too."_

_The Tower of Cirith Ungol – The Return of the King, J.R.R. Tolkien_

* * *

**The Crow's Lament**

_*~March 12__th__ to 14__th__ of 1421 S.R.~*_

Part I

* * *

"Good night then, dear cousin," cried Merry and began to laugh uproariously- a laugh that could only be a result of the vast amount of the splendid brew he had enjoyed that evening. "Don't you dare to trip and fall and land flat on your nose." Merry's voice slurred and he grinned as he became aware of the bright red blush of the addressed cousin's cheeks. Merry got up from his seat and circled the table on unsteady feet to pull his older friend into a tight hug.

"You should go home too." The one in Merry's strong embrace gasped, obviously finding it a bit difficult to pump a sufficient amount of air into his lungs. "Wouldn't want you to suffocate anyone but your own kin," he said. He chuckled and freed himself from the other Hobbit's arms.

"Well spoken, my dear Frodo, well spoken indeed." Merry laughed, holding his stomach with both his hands. "Master Samwise!" he yelled and searched the inn's large room with his eyes. "Master Samwise," he cried again, a little louder this time, since the other guests' chatter was easily drowning his claim.

"No need to shout, Mr. Merry." The sought for Hobbit appeared out of the blue next to Merry. Or at least that's what said Hobbit thought, for in his hazed state of mind his vision had grown somewhat dim.

"Master Samwise!" Merry laughed, referring to his cousin's loyal friend in a manner that was most unseemly for a Hobbit who was a simple gardener. "Frodo wishes to retire for the night, even though I think he has not yet had enough of this splendid-…." He grabbed his half pint and emptied it with one gulp. "ale," he finished, waving his cup. "Can't you convince him to stay a wee bit longer? The evening's only just begun." He watched his cousin's best friend to see what his response might be.

"It's nearing midnight, Mr. Merry, and if Mr. Frodo wishes to go home then he should do so," Sam said, then sighed. "Come, Mr. Frodo. Bag End is a mile or two away and you look mighty tired." In a quite friendly manner he placed his arm around his friend's shoulder, but drew it back instantly when he noticed Frodo flinch. "What is it, Mr. Frodo?" he asked, concern evident in his large brown eyes.

"Nothing," came Frodo's quick answer. But something in his slightly reddened blue eyes told Sam that this was not quite true. "I'm just tired and you startled me." The older Hobbit smiled at his friend in an attempt to convince him that everything was indeed all right.

"Well, then I suppose it's better I brought you home, Mr. Frodo. Masters Bilbo and Gandalf certainly would have a word with me or two, were they to find out that I did not take proper care of you," said Sam, his forehead wrinkled with determination. "And Rosie, too. She is not in the best mood with that wee one growing inside of her, and no mistake," Sam added and looked stricken. Frodo laughed when he saw the almost desperate expression on his friend's face.

"My dear Sam," he continued and smiled fondly at the younger Hobbit. "I am not a wee lad anymore and I'm perfectly able to take care of myself. You worry too much over this old Hobbit."

"That is beside the point, Mr. Frodo," Sam argued, feeling the effect of the ale himself and, as a result, was at the mercy of his somewhat loosened tongue. "You see, I made a promise once and I intend to keep it. I'm still not convinced that Master Gandalf won't turn me into something…" He hesitated for a moment obviously thinking hard. "… _unnatural_."

"Rosie probably wouldn't find that very agreeable," Merry chided. Again his hearty laughter could be heard throughout the inn. Sam blushed furiously at Merry's loud words. Even though Rosie was his, he still had not grown quite accustomed to the thought that such a lass like her would set her eyes only on him. "Go on then, and take _Mr. Frodo_ home. We wouldn't want good old Gandalf to turn you into a toad." Obviously the ale had loosened Merry's tongue as well.

"Good night, Merry," Frodo said. He headed for the door where he waited for Sam to join him. And that Sam did after he had said his own goodbyes.

They stepped into the cool spring night and almost instantly the fresh air made their heads swim just a little more. On wobbly legs they trudged over Bywater Bridge and up the hill, traveling the nearly two miles from the Green Dragon through Hobbiton towards Bagshot Row in a little less than an hour. Sam's gaze wandered over the soft hills where the previous year's saplings had grown into small trees. With time they would banish the image of the destroyed land into the world of heinous memories. Dew misted the lush meadows and the moon bathed the tiny droplets with its silver light. Here and there the round windows of rebuilt Hobbit homes were still illuminated by the flickering light of candles, but most of their fellow Hobbits had already retired for the night. Or else they were still enjoying their ale in the Green Dragon, that is. Peace had returned to the Shire and the Hobbits who lived there. The wounds left on the land and its inhabitants were healed, tormented souls were pacified. Most of them at least.

"Here we are," Sam announced as they reached the gate of No 1 Bagshot Row. He looked questioningly at Frodo who had come to a halt right next to him. In the dim moonlight his face shone white; the flush in his cheeks was gone and he seemed drained of all color. "Are you ill?" Sam asked bluntly. He remained unconvinced when Frodo shook his head.

"I had too much of the ale, I suppose," the older Hobbit explained. He walked up to Bag End's front door and sat down on the bench right next to it. He smiled at Sam. "Go to your Rosie, my dear Sam. She needs the comfort of your embrace even more so now than ever."

Sam sighed. "Do you think she'll be mad? I promised to be back way before midnight and now look at the time. It's tomorrow already."

Frodo chuckled. "Rosie mad at you? No, Sam. I don't think she will be. She adores you just as much as you adore her. It's probably beyond her all together to be mad at you at all." He gave his friend an encouraging wink. "Go to her, Sam. I'll just sit here for a little while and enjoy some of the Old Toby and the peace and quiet of the night."

"All right then," Sam grumbled reluctantly. He opened the large round green door. "Good night, Mr. Frodo."

"Good night, Sam."

The door finally closed and Frodo heaved a relieved sigh. He knew that he could not have fooled Sam for much longer. What had begun as a dull throbbing pain in his neck hours earlier in the Green Dragon had long grown into a stabbing agony. The intensity of the pain made breathing rather difficult and Frodo instantly stowed away his pouch of pipe weed in his waistcoat's pocket. Leaning forward he rested his elbows on his knees, hoping that this position would be more comfortable rather than sitting up straight. He felt dizzy and sick and he was certain that those were no longer the aftermaths of too much of the Green Dragon's fine ale.

It was happening again and he knew it.

And had Sam realized what the date was, he would have known too.

"You cannot always save me," Frodo whispered to the last lingering remainders of Sam's presence and closed his eyes. "Not when there is no way to save me." He should try and go inside and into his own small bedroom. Rosie and Sam now occupied Bag End's largest bedroom, although both of them were for a long time unwilling to accept Frodo's gracious offer.

On the day they had told Frodo that they were expecting their first child, Bag End's owner had quietly packed all his belongings and had moved back into the room of his tweens. After that he retrieved the Bagginses' old cradle from one of the storage rooms. Both Bilbo and he had been lulled into sleep as infants in said cradle by their respective parents.

The sight of the cradle saddened Frodo even through the growing haze of memories and pain. Not too long ago he had dreamed of singing lullabies to his own child; he had dreamed of a family of his own.

"It was not meant to be." What were supposed to be comforting words sounded hollow, even to his own ears, but indeed that dream had died. Loving and being loved were now but distant memories and where the ability to do both had once resided was now a great black emptiness filling his heart.

Frodo grunted heavily as he rose from the bench with difficulty. He felt cold and his knees hardly supported his weight as he slowly went to his small bedroom at the far end of Bag End. As quietly as only Hobbits could walk, he passed through the many halls of his home. Hoping that he would not wake Sam or Rosie, he closed the door slowly from the inside. The squeaky noise it made when moved too quickly echoed through all of the smial and would certainly rouse at least Rosie. Her sleep was light and she was more often than not just as worried about Frodo as her beloved husband.

Remaining still behind the closed door, Frodo listened for any sounds coming from the hall. When he heard nothing, he sighed in relief. He approached his bed with steps that felt as heavy as his heart in his chest. Silver moonlight was the only thing that illuminated his steps towards his bed on which he eventually sank down heavily. From his neck the pain had started to spread to his head and held his shoulders in an iron grip. With each passing moment he found it more difficult to move his weary limbs. Panic rose in his heart as the pain slowly engulfed his entire body and ran through his veins as her poison had two years ago to the day.

Without a warning he fell back onto the soft mattress of his bed, no longer able to move or cry out in his agony. The walls around him were spinning and soon the soft brown wooden panels became darker and turned into stone. Unable to close his eyes to shut out the nightmare unfolding before him, the shadows on the walls turned into eight long legs and the smell of the fresh night air coming through the window was replaced by her foul stench.

The thirteenth day of March would dawn soon and with the sun old fears and terrors would rise and torment the one who had saved them all.


	2. Part II

AN: My thanks to FairyTaleLover6 who has not only graciously agreed to beta read this story but always offers her unrelenting support. For that I am eternally in her debt.

Thanks to seafarer for her review. I hope this won't disappoint.

* * *

_"He was in a land of darkness where the days of the world seemed forgotten, and where all who entered were forgotten too."_

_The Tower of Cirith Ungol – The Return of the King, J.R.R. Tolkien_

* * *

**The Crow's Lament**

_*~March 12__th__ to 14__th__ of 1421 S.R.~*_

Part II

* * *

_"Scars are the words in the books of our lives. They tell the stories of our failures, our successes, our loves, and our sorrows. They're the threads that bind us to our past and remind us of things we'd rather forget and others that we cherish. It is them that define us and leave us naked and deprived of all the denials in which we find comfort. Secrets they render meaningless and we're left at our judges' mercy."_

Sam shook his head as he read the words on the piece of parchment on Frodo's desk. Frodo's delicate handwriting bore no evidence of his grim thoughts and Sam wondered why this particular text had been left on the desk for everyone to read. The previous night Sam had persuaded his master and friend to join him for a night of merriment and ale at the Green Dragon and it had taken a lot of convincing on Sam's part until Frodo finally agreed to join him. But unbeknownst to Master Baggins it had been Rosie Gamgee's doing that he had ended up drinking and singing with his few friends at Hobbiton's inn. She had convinced Sam to make Frodo leave his self-imposed loneliness for at least a few hours. Consequently, it is safe to say that Bag End's gardener never had to face anger in his wife's features when he had returned home a little later than planned.

Sam shook his head and tried to make sense of Frodo's musings but found that he couldn't. He placed the day's mail on Frodo's desk. The handwriting on one of the letters seemed vaguely familiar and Sam was quite sure that Bilbo had sent his cousin a letter from Rivendell.

"Sam?" Rosie was standing in the doorway to Frodo's study, watching her husband. "Is there something wrong?"

Startled, Sam turned around and smiled first at his wife and then at her swollen stomach."I don't know," he said at length after a while. He walked up to her and kissed her on the tip of her nose, his hand gently stroking her round middle.

"You seem worried, even more so than usual," she said matter-of-factly and eyed him curiously.

"Mr. Frodo's been more quiet than usual these days and he refuses to leave Bag End most of the time. He won't even go out into the garden or for one of his walks as he used to." He stopped and his eyes suddenly opened wide as though he had remembered something. "What day is it today?"

"The 13th day of March," said Rosie at once, although a bit confused. "Why?"

"Are you sure, my love?" Sam asked with urgency.

"I am. But won't you tell me why this is so important?" she cried and took a step back, her eyes never leaving her husband's face.

"Have you seen Mr. Frodo at all today?"

"No, I have not! But it's not that late in the morning yet. He probably overslept, is all." Sam just shook his head and rushed past Rosie out of the study. "Sam!" she called after him and he stopped when he became aware of the agitation in her voice. "Tell me what's going on!"

"Two years ago to the day Mr. Frodo was stung by that giant spider I told you about. You know he had fallen ill last year on that day."

"You think it's happening again?" she asked and quickly walked up to her husband. She grabbed him by the arm before he had a chance to answer her. Sam nodded while his wife was already dragging him towards Frodo's bedroom. She came to an abrupt halt right in front of it and knocked softly. Both of them listened intently but there was nothing to be heard from the inside.

"Again," Sam whispered after a while. "Knock again." Rosie did as Sam had asked, but got the same result. Nothing.

"Something is wrong, I'm sure of it," said Rosie. Taking a deep breath, she quickly opened the door to Frodo's bedroom. Sam nearly bumped into her when he followed her. Rosie stood in the middle of the room, her eyes fixed on the bed, her hand covering her mouth. Quickly Sam stepped past her and saw what had put his wife in such a state of terror. Frodo lay on his bed atop the covers, fully clothed. His face was ashen, his bright blue eyes opened wide as if in fear and staring at the ceiling unseeing what was before them.

Slowly Sam approached the bed and, as he did so, Rosie followed. "Mr. Frodo?" There was no response and so the younger Hobbit sat down next to his friend and took his hand gently in his. With fear in his eyes, he looked at his wife. "His hand is as cold as ice, Rosie. Like he is …" Sam didn't dare utter the word that lay on the tip of his tongue.

"He is not. Look," said Rosie and pointed at Frodo. "His chest is moving. It's difficult to see, but he is breathing." A rattling sound came from the still Hobbit on the bed and, when Sam looked at him, he saw foam seeping from Frodo's slightly parted lips. "We must sit him up!" Rosie cried. Despite her huge belly, she leaped for the bed to help her husband bring Frodo to an upright position.

"He is so cold, Rosie," said Sam quietly as Frodo's limp body rested against his. "So cold," he repeated, his words now but a whisper. He kissed the dark curls of his friend as though this small gesture of friendship could rouse Frodo from his stupor. Meanwhile, Rosie had grabbed a blanket and now placed it around the ill Hobbit's shoulders.

"What do we do?" she asked. Sam saw moisture shimmering in her bright eyes.

"Last time I had to see poor Mr. Frodo like this, there was nothing that could be done." Sam sighed heavily. There was hint of guilt in his voice and Rosie found that Sam wouldn't look her in the eye. "I thought he was dead, you see," he continued, fixing his eyes on the floor. "It is all…"

"_They've taken everything, Sam. Everything I had_."* The sound of Frodo's voice was faint but there without a doubt.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam cried. He leaned back a little so that he could look at the Hobbit in his arms. When he saw that Frodo's state had not changed, fear washed over him and he looked at his wife with great worry. "Rosie…" he whispered, knowing well that there was nothing she could do.

"Everything…"

* * *

_Cold._

_So very cold._

_The dim light hurts his eyes as it meets them for the first time. He shuts it out again. His senses are coming back to him and they bring pain with them. The rough surface of stone leaves scratches in his skin as he tries to move into a position that promises a little more comfort. But it is to no avail. He cannot move; his hands and legs are bound. Ropes cut into his flesh and healthy skin is replaced by angry burns. _

_"What have we here?" a cold voice demands. "Shagrat!" it yells, the sound still without a face. "Come! The filth's awake." Heavy footsteps can be heard while fear begins to seep through him. Why are his eyes failing to see what is happening?_

_Someone, or some_thing_ rather, is leaning over him; a foul stench invades his nostrils and makes his stomach turn. Violent spasms shake his body as he retches repeatedly, unable to bring forth anything but fluids. _

_"And filth he is!" cries the same voice as before in disgust and anger. "He's heaving his guts up all over me." Strange sounds follow, as though something long is being unfolded. "I'll teach you a lesson, you little maggot!" A hard kick to his stomach does not ease the sick feeling; the fist against his cheekbone lets him see stars as bright and clear as in a hot summer night._

_"Hold it!" shrieks another voice, deeper than the other one and more dangerous. "We can't harm it as long as we don't know where _it_ is."_

_"Curse you Shagrat," replies the first voice. "Since when are prisoners allowed to hurl all over us?"_

_"Silence, Gorbag!" the one called Shagrat yells. He's quickly stomps towards the figure on the ground. "Did you find what we're looking for?"_

_"I stripped the scumbag of everything." Gorbag walks away and sound of his steps becomes fainter and fainter until they can no longer be heard at all. __"I found nothing except for that shiny shirt." _

_"Give that to me!" the deep voice belonging to Shagrat demands harshly. "It's not ours to keep. Our orders are unmistakable. Everything we find has to go to the Great Eye."_

_"The Master wants only one thing and I have not found it. Maybe he's not the one we're looking for," Gorbag cries. The sound of finely woven chainmail echoes from the wall as it is thrown carelessly on the ground._

_"Search his clothes then."_

_"I've already done that. It was not there."_

_"Then let's see whether that stinking little worm knows where to find it." Evil laughter fills the room as Shagrat's heavy steps come closer to the figure on the ground. The stench is unbearable; his threatening presence is almost palpable. The orc bends his knees and crouches down low, bringing his face too close to his victim's ear. Stooping over the still figure on the cold hard stone floor, thick and oozy drool runs out from the corner of his scarred mouth and drops down onto the small one's face. "Where is it?"_

_"What?" The tiny voice is faint, quivering, and fearful__. Blue eyes are still hidden behind tightly closed lids as though this would shut out the evil surrounding him._

_"The Ring, you filthy little maggot." A hand is placed on the bound small one's shoulder and squeezes it painfully. "I know you have it. The Dark Lord knows you have it." Another squeeze. Harder this time. "Where is it?"Shagrat snarls._

_"I don't know." The small one answers truthfully and lets out a small gasp of pain. "I don't have it."_

_"Liar!" Gorbag shouts and comes closer to his captain and their prisoner. _

_"You wouldn't want us to _make_ you tell us the truth, would you? For one last time: where is the Dark Lord's Ring?" Shagrat spits. _

_"I don't know…" The words are pressed through trembling lips and the poison in his system begins to wear off. He starts to remember – Gollum, the pass, the cavern, the giant_ _spider and her stinger. A moment of excruciating pain followed by an eternity in darkness; not oblivious darkness but the one that makes you see all of your greatest fears at once, that puts you under its spell and binds you forever. A prisoner in his own mind her poison had made him. But those chains are giving way now and are leaving him a victim to even darker terrors._

_ Rough hands grab him and lift him up high. Suddenly he is too aware of his nakedness, of his exposure to the orcs' mercy of which they clearly have none. His eyes flutter open and he comes eye to eye with Shagrat. Black boiling pools stare at him with menace. "Give me your whip," The orc mutters and the other one is fast to obey the orc-captain's wish. While the smaller one unfurls the long leather lash, the one, who had been dragging him across the room, binds him to a ring attached to the thick stone wall. With his hands bound high above his head there is nowhere for him to run – and no means of escape._


	3. Part III

AN: So here it is - the last part of this story. I hope you have enjoyed my little tale.

Thanks to those who read and reviewed. Feedback is greatly appreciated, even more so when one puts a lot of their heart into a story they write. As I did with this one.

Again I have to thank my wonderful beta reader FairyTaleLover6. She was quick to finish reading this story with an editor's eye and she does a wonderful job. I suppose it's not easy to read through all the ramblings and funny errors in grammar a beta gets to see when editing a story written by someone who unfortunately lacks the privilege to call English her native language.

* * *

_"He was in a land of darkness where the days of the world seemed forgotten, and where all who entered were forgotten too."_

_The Tower of Cirith Ungol – The Return of the King, J.R.R. Tolkien_

* * *

**The Crow's Lament**

_*~March 12__th__ to 14__th__ of 1421 S.R.~*_

Part III

* * *

"What's going on, Sam? What's happening?" Rosie cried. She watched helplessly as her husband struggled with the thrashing hobbit on the bed. Frodo tried to escape Sam's firm grip on his shoulders, but the younger hobbit wouldn't allow it.

"He's reliving what happened to him at Cirith Ungol, I fear," Sam said, gasping for breath. Despite his weakened state, Frodo fought him with determined strength.

"Why won't he wake?"

"I don't know, Rosie." Sam sighed and struggled to keep Frodo from hurting himself. "I was not there with him and when I got there it was already too late." Sam paused and averted his eyes from his wife, still feeling ashamed about a truth he had to admit. "I thought he was dead when I found him in Shelob's lair. But he wasn't and the orcs got him in their filthy hands. I don't know what happened to him in their tower. He's never…" He stopped mid-sentence when suddenly the struggling ceased and Frodo lay unmoving and unconscious in his arms. Behind closed lids his eyes were moving rapidly. "He's burning up," Sam whispered. He looked at his wife, his teary eyes pleading for her help.

* * *

_The wide grin on Shagrat's lips makes his distorted features even more abominable as he revels in his victim's screams of agony. _

_"Let this be a lesson to you what happens to one who doesn't obey the Dark Lord's wish." _

_Blinded by pain, the small figure gasps for air. Tears of defeat and fear are rolling down his cheeks. He wants to say something, but the suffocating feeling in his lungs won't allow him to let out even the smallest sigh. _

_"Make him squeal, Captain," grins Gorbag. He stands next to Shagrat, some distance away from their defenseless victim. "Just don't kill him."_

_"There is still too much life left in him. He won't drop dead on us anytime soon," Shagrat says. He approaches the bound halfling. The orc drops the whip to the ground and grabs the small one's face cruelly by the chin. "Of course it doesn't have to stay that way. There are many stages of existence between life and death and I can make you experience them all."He slaps the small face hard without the tiniest hint of pity and presses his hand against the angry mark the spider's stinger had left. "Will you talk now? Or is it the whip again for you?"_

_"I don't have what your Master seeks," the small one gasps weakly. "If you have not found it, then it is lost for there are others out there craving the Ring."_

_"He is lying," Gorbag announces and picks up the whip. "Let me give him some more of our fine treatment."_

_"You're not suggesting that you are more effective than I am, I hope?" Shagrat snarls and lets go of the pained face._

_"No, not at all. But I want to have some fun myself before we ought to stop our little questioning here," Gorbag says. Only a moment later Shagrat takes a couple of steps back. The halfling tries to turn so that he can see what is happening. Behind him there is a considerably smaller orc, holding a whip in his dirty hands. An evil grin distorts his ugly face as he cracks the lash on the ground. The sound makes him laugh with dark delight and the sight of fear in blue eyes encourages him even more._

_Another crack against the stone floor makes the halfling cringe._

_"Just get it over with." Shagrat snarls and rolls his black eyes. "The Dark Lord wants results and soon."_

_His small heart beats rapidly against an already battered ribcage and a cry of pain echoes through the dimly lit room as the whip cracks against the his side. Agony engulfs the small one and deprives him of his breath. Searing hot pain shoots through him and stars are dancing in a blinding rhythm behind tightly shut lids. _

_"One more won't kill this stinking rat."_

_The sickening crack of the whip is heard again; the pain is now worse than before. For a brief moment, the tormented skin seems numb and a warm liquid seeps from the gash the leather string has left. _

_Another crack._

_Another whiplash._

_The pain has become too overwhelming to stay alert. To stay awake. _

_"Well done, you idiot!" Shagrat's angry cry is the last thing he hears before darkness claims him._

* * *

A cry of agony echoed through Bag End's long halls. It was a cry so loud that even the birds in the garden outside flew up into the sky in a panic.

Frodo writhed in pain on his bed while Sam sat next to him holding his hand. It was the only thing he could do – to let his friend know that he was not alone.

"Shh, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, trying to sooth the other hobbit. Tears filled his eyes as he watched the older hobbit next to him. To his surprise, Frodo tore his hand free from his friend's grasp and curled up into a ball on the bed. With his knees drawn to his chest, he wrapped his arms around himself as if he was protecting himself from a danger only he could see in his feverish nightmare.

Rosie came into the room carrying a bowl with cool water. A few clean cloths hung from her forearm and she set the bowl down on the nightstand. Without a word, she wetted one of them and gently put it on Frodo's forehead. She grabbed her husband's hand and placed it over the cool cloth so that he could hold it in place.

"I'm scared, Rosie," Sam whispered. He looked up at her.

"I know, love. But he's not alone. He never was. He's always had you to look out for him."

* * *

_Burning pain in his side banishes the comforting numbness of sweet unconsciousness. Slowly this cold place claims him once more; the dim light brings back the fear of his tormentors as his eyes open of their own accord. There's no sounds in the room that will disrupt the faint ordering shouts coming from somewhere below him. He tries to focus. The dark stone walls are still surrounding him and their sight deprives him of the small hope that he is only trapped in a nightmare. The orcs are gone, but they have left the whip on the ground as a warning sign that eventually they will return._

_A sound that does not seem to belong to his prison suddenly claims all of his attention. Swiftly he turns his head and for the first time he discovers an empty space between the solid blocks of stone. Cool wind blows into the room and makes him shiver as it hits the open wound at his side. A small pool of blood has accumulated on the ground underneath him. The flow of red has stopped but has left a bright red trail across his stomach._

_At first all he sees is a black shadow and it appears to be hopping restlessly from one leg to the other. Only a breath later the shadow spreads its wings and flies into the prison that is the Tower of Cirith Ungol. It lands on a table in the far corner of the room where the small one's clothing, scabbard, and chainmail lay. The bird probed the shiny Mithril with its beak and then released it, spreading its wings once more. Strong flaps carry the creature through the air toward the figure on the floor. He ducks his head in fear of the black bird and presses himself hard against the cold stone in a feeble and useless attempt to find protection. _

_The crow lands right in front of him and tilts its head to the side, watching the halfling out of curious black eyes. It does not move at all. As its stare pierces his own pale blue eyes, the halfling senses a strange feeling washing over him. Fear is suddenly replaced by a faint notion of peace that is growing stronger as the seconds pass by. The large bird hops closer to the halfling and it is careful to avoid the dark pool of blood on the floor. With its beak it probes the ropes which bind hands and legs; it tucks at them in attempt to loosen them a little. The knots are too tight and soon it has to give up. _

_For a while they just sit there without moving. Minutes turn into hours that bring a kind of peace upon the beaten halfling which he has never felt before. _

_"Your time has not yet come, Frodo of the Shire." The voice is almost inaudible but unmistakably there. Nervously, he lifts his head from the cold stone and stares at the bird in front of him with a mixture of fear and curiosity in his heavy heart._

_"Is that you speaking to me?" the halfling queries. For a moment he feels rather ridiculous talking to a bird. "Are you one of the Crebain? Have you come here to spy on me by Sauron's orders?" His voice is weak as he speaks._

_"Not all crows are of the evil kind," the voice says. Again the bird's head tilts to the side. "Some of us are guides and we do not belong to the enemy's spies."_

_"Guides?"_

_"Those of us who were once in Radagast's care have crossed the border that separates our realms. Thus we are able to guide lost souls. Sometimes we guide them to the land of the dead and at other times we watch over the souls until they are no longer in danger."_

_"Is the date of my death already set then?" the halfling asks._

_"It has been set for a long time. But do not fret. It is not today." _

_"I have failed and fallen into the enemy's hands. I am lost…" Tears well up in his eyes as the finality of his situation hits him. _

_"_Not all those who wander are lost_,"* the voice says. The halfling looks up and straight into the eyes of the black bird. "You remember these words, I see. Rest now, Frodo son of Drogo. Help is on its way and even though you may still face more toils and dangers, do not lose hope. Evil has not yet won. So don't let it win over your heart." _

_The crow hops closer to the unmoving halfling on the ground. He stares at its black shimmering feathers and to him it seems as though the sun's comforting warmth and light were reflected in them. In the dim light a sparkle catches his eye and it is only then that his tired eyes discover a small phial tethered to its leg. A clear liquid glimmers within and the halfling begins to remember._

_"I've seen this… I've tasted this before," he gasps weakly and closes his eyes. Silence hangs in the room for the longest time as the voice does not speak again. _

_"My journey was long and I feared it would be in vain. Others high in rank and graced with wisdom accumulated by the passing of the ages thought that at end of my route I'd find nothing. But here you are, the one carrying not only the Ring but also the hopes of all of us. Little I can do for you, for I cannot free you from this prison. Open your eyes, Frodo, and drink this elvish draught that will give you some strength for the rest of your journey."_

_"My journey is ended. The quest is failed. I do longer have it." His words are only a whisper, shame threatens to take what is left of his will._

_"Not all is lost, Frodo. Help is on its way. Choose to live, I beg you. Although I cannot promise that you'll live to see brighter days again, there is still some hope. All you have to do is to find it in your heart." At this the halfling opens his eyes once more and sees something that he hadn't thought was possible until this day: A tear runs down the crow's black cheek. "Much guilt flies with those of my kin. Take what little I can give and find some strength."_

_It takes all of the halfling's strength to free the bird's leg from its burden. The cork slides easily out of the phial as he opens it and with a trembling, weak hand he brings it to his dry lips. The pain in his throat is immediately eased as he swallows the minruvor; the bleeding on his side subsides immediately and the wound the orcs' whip has left begins to mend._

_"Rest. Sleep, if you can. I must leave before the enemy's eyes and those of my kin discover my presence." A moment of silence follows. "May the blessings and love of all those who dwell in Middle Earth follow you until the day you die. There is none amongst all the living and breathing who deserves both more than you, Frodo son of Drogo." _

_The crow's last words fade into silence and the black bird remains on the floor next to him as an overwhelming urge to sleep washes over him. The words of his long dead friend still echo in his head as consciousness is leaving him. 'Not all those who wander are lost…' Gandalf whispers and soon Frodo knows no more._

* * *

The early morning's sun bathed the small bedroom in a warm light. Frodo stirred on his bed as the warm rays tickled his nose. A small smile played on his lips as his eyes fluttered open. Stifling a yawn, he stretched his limbs and almost bolted upright in his bed as his hand hit something soft right next to him.

"Ouch," cried a familiar voice next to him. Sam woke from his slumber.

"Sam?" Frodo looked puzzled at his friend and shook his head. "What are you doing in my bed? Did Rosie get angry with you after all?" he queried with an amused twinkle in his eyes.

"Why would Rosie be angry with me?" Sam asked. He rubbed his nose where Frodo had accidentally hit him.

"For coming home late last night? You were worried about that. Don't you remember?" Frodo stated what he thought was the obvious.

"Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but that was two nights ago." Sam looked at him in earnest. "Don't you remember what happened yesterday?"

"What are you talking about, Sam?" Frodo was now positively confused.

"You fell ill again, Mr. Frodo," Sam explained. He watched as all color vanished from Frodo's face once more. "You were dreaming a lot, I think, and sometimes saying unintelligible stuff about a Shagrat and a Gorbag and some bird…" Sam raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "I don't know what any of that meant but you gave us quite the scare, my poor Rosie and me."

"Oh, I am so sorry, Sam. But I don't remember anything. All I remember is a merry night out with you and Pippin and Merry."

"It's probably better this way. It does no good to dwell in the past too much. At least that's my old Gaffer used to say."

"And he was quite right," Frodo smiled at his friend.

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Mr. Frodo. But I hope you don't mind me looking after my Rosie. With her expecting and all, I'm worried about her, too." Sam got up from the bed, but waited for some form of permission from Frodo.

"Go ahead, Sam. Take care of your Rosie. This old hobbit here can look out for himself," Frodo said and gave his friend an encouraging nod.

"Breakfast will be ready when you're done with your morning business," Sam beamed and hurried out of the room. Frodo heaved a sigh of relief.

Obviously he still had it in him to fool his loyal friend. He hated to lie to Sam, but a few things were better left unspoken. Such as the nightmares of the previous day, which he remembered all too clearly.

* * *

_*~May 3__rd__, 1421 S.R.~*_

_"Scars are the words in the books of our lives. They tell the stories of our failures, our successes, our loves, and our sorrows. They're the threads that bind us to our past and remind us of things we'd rather forget and others that we cherish. It is them that define us and leave us naked and deprived of all the denials in which we find comfort. Secrets they render meaningless and we're left at our judges' mercy._

_Some wounds, however, are too deep to ever fully heal. On the surface they leave nothing but another scar. Underneath the blood still flows and the pain, the wound once caused, remains the same. One can only hope that those we love will understand what the past has done to us, and the ailments that it has left with us. And then, when the pain eventually becomes too much to bear and the will to endure is gone we will cause others pain when dreaded words leave our lips. _I must go_, we will say to them and take yet more grief upon us."_

Frodo lay his quill aside and read one more time through the words on the parchment.

"I'm so sorry, Sam," he whispered to himself, fighting the tears that welled up in his eyes. "But I can't go on like this. I have to leave." Soft wailing sounds came from Sam and Rosie's bedroom a few doors down the hall. "Little Elanor," he said with a smile. "What beauty she beholds. She'll help you through your grief." Frodo folded the parchment twice, and stuck it in an envelope which he closed and then sealed. He wrote Sam's name on it and hid it underneath a stack of parchments on his desk. His gaze fell upon Bilbo's book. "Soon it will be finished and then I shall be gone. No longer do I want to be the cause of you being torn between your family and me. They deserve your love and you as a whole."

"Who are you talking to, Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam. His voice startled Frodo.

"How are your fair daughter and her mother, my dear Sam?" Frodo ignored Sam's question and quickly rose from his chair.

"All is well and as it should be."

"Good, Sam. I'm glad to hear it." _Soon you will be whole again. This I promise._

* * *

* Strider - The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien


End file.
